


Map of the problematique

by witheredsong



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:48:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheredsong/pseuds/witheredsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is waiting. Lately, his life has turned into a long season of waiting. To heal from injuries, to win, to get back the armband…a long long wait for a young man who is not quite known for his patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Map of the problematique

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic, posting here for archiving purposes.

Sitting here, it is possible to forget some of the troubles his mind refuses to let go of. He is inexorably an alien here, in this smoky bar with the inexplicable jumble of Turkish rock and German pop blared out at ear-shattering levels. The crowd is an eclectic mishmash of the local populace and some bewildered tourists. The music and the conversation, along with the smoke from the shishas make every face anonymous, and he is content to just sit, feeling dazed and a little sleepy, with the sweet coffee warming his cupped hands around the little cup. A stray cat winds itself around his ankles, its bony pitiful body a momentary warmth.

 

He is waiting. Lately, his life has turned into a long season of waiting. To heal from injuries, to win, to get back the armband…a long long wait for a young man who is not quite known for his patience. He has never ever given credence to the received wisdom of waiting for good things to come to him. He prefers to meet them halfway, recklessly going in to meet the challenge. Of course, it might either be a boot to the head or a goal, but the chance that it could be a goal makes him disregard the danger of a cranial fracture. His mouth curves into a smile at the thought, the strange, incongruous tip-tilted eyes half-closed in weariness and remembrance of things past.

 

Of course, a goal also means a rare embrace from Frank. Frank has stopped touching him. He is not sure if this is a conscious move on Frank’s part. The possibility that it’s not quite pre-meditated somehow hurts worse. It used to be, they touched each other all the time, brushes of fingers, arms around shoulders, ruffled hair. In the beginning, not quite love, but affection expressed in those fleeting touches. The craving came later.

 

Now though, well. He seems to be waiting all the time for Frank, and what was once so easy to read is now incomprehensible. There is no comfort at all, anywhere. And football, his refuge, has betrayed him too. Unthinkable loss. But no. Here he will sit quietly, for a moment, and put himself together. Then, he will go back to the hotel through narrow cobbled streets and the spice-scented air, put back on his laughing face.

 

The hand on his shoulder startles him badly enough that a bit of his by now lukewarm coffee spills over his fingers.

 

“Shit! Are you hurt?”, the apparition that looks and speaks like Frank brings out a pristine handkerchief, (his posh boy, John’s amused mind supplies) and tries to get the liquid off his hands.

 

His appearance is unexpected. John is still not quite awake and has missed Frank so badly, he curves his fingers around Frank’s wrist and presses a kiss to the pulse there. The increase in beat he feels with his lips, hears Frank’s measured breathing, and suddenly comes to his senses.

 

Frank is still standing beside his chair, back straight, the line of shoulders tense with strain. He is wearing worn jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled back to show his strong forearms, the buttons open just enough for a hint of the dark hollow of his throat. It never gets easier, never goes away, this want in John’s blood. To be alone in his desire seems particularly cruel now, when he craves comfort most.

Frank is beautiful in the low light, and people are noticing. The girl sitting at the table in the corner with her friends twists around in her chair to get a better look, her dark eyes appreciative. She turns back and says something which makes the girl with the scarf in her hair and the boy in glasses laugh out loud. The young American who has been been quietly smoking the evening away, surrounded by peach fumes, just stares at Frank’s legs. His interest is blatant, obvious. John would, if he could, kill him.

 

Misery burns through his bones.

 

He turns back to find Frank coolly appraising him, lips tightened. His eyes are bright and really really tired.

 

“How did you find me?” He asks Frank, as he stands up and puts down a handful of coins, enough to cover his bill three times over. He just wanted to be alone, and now there is no chance of that. He straightens his shoulders and walks out into the dark street. Frank follows him out, and John notices the numerous packages in his hands for the first time.

 

“Been shopping, then?”

 

“Elen wanted a few things, so….” Frank replies nonchalantly.

 

“Always a good idea to keep the wife happy, isn’t it?”

 

John laughs, though the sound echoes unnaturally loudly in the quiet street and makes him flinch a bit. He has often made jokes about how totally whipped Frank is regarding the missus, though at this moment he fails to find the joke. Yet, laughter is always better than the overwhelming urge to weep, or just bury his face in Frank’s shoulder, knocking those presents from Frank’s hands and the love for someone else from Frank’s heart.

 

He won’t do it though. He has more pride than that.

 

“So, you never told me how you found me?”

 

Frank smiles, a real warm smile at him. “You really think I can’t find you if I want to?”

 

“Ah, so why was I singled out for the honour, your lordship?” He can play this game as well as Frank. They have been playing this game for months now, the tension simmering under meaningless jokes, never quite saying what they wanted to, and watching Frank distance himself, second by second, watching new dreams and new countries in Frank’s eyes. The hand-span of endless distance between them remains, he notes, something pulling raw and tight in his chest.

 

Frank shrugs. “I missed you, is all.” Raging fury rises in John until he is blind. The guts of the fucker, the guts.

 

“I see. So after months of mind-fuckery…”, he chokes on his words and stumbles to a stop. The bastard. No one else can unravel him with a careless word like Frank does.

 

Frank puts out a cool hand and cups John’s nape.

 

“Don’t touch me,” John grinds out, his entire body trembling.

 

There is mutiny in Frank’s eyes.

 

“You miss me? Oh God, months and months you almost see through me, you speak about me to the press and don’t speak a direct sentence to me and then have the guts to say to me you missed me? What the fuck Frank, what the fuck?”

 

He can see Frank is furious, and really, he does not want to get into a fight with him in a narrow alley in Istanbul, between the gutter and the moss covered wall of the house from which the savoury smell of cooking lamb and saffron drifts.

 

He turns his back on Frank, tries breathing in deep, tries to compose himself, but Frank jut turns him around, both hands on his shoulders, the packets discarded on the ground.

 

“You think this is not hard enough for me? I will leave at the end of the season, Johnny.” The words are certain, clear, and John feels as if he has been shot through the heart, his own blood choking him, unbearable agony. He struggles to get away, but Frank’s hold on his arms tightens enough to leave bruises.

 

“No! Listen to me. I will leave, and it will be my decision because the club might want me, but the bosses don’t. And you will stay because this is your home, and you will have to go on.” He gives him a hard shake and asks, “Do you understand? Let me go, John.”

 

It is an entreaty and so patently absurd, John throws back his head and laughs and laughs until the tears pool at the corner of his eyes. There is a sliver of moon visible in the slice of sky above.

 

“So go.” He shakes himself free of Frank, and brushes away the moisture in his eyes with the back of his hands roughly.

 

Frank is watching him with wide eyes, his hands around himself in a self-hug, or maybe he is warding off John.

 

“Go! And I hope you’re unhappy and lonely there and I will forget about you. See if I don’t.” He can’t wish anything worse on Frank.

 

Frank looks as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His beautiful eyes (that’s what he first noticed, the first sign that he was unsafe in the person he thought his safety net) bright now, just look, and it cuts like a knife.

 

“I will leave the club, not you. And you are all right to forget me. I can’t do nothing about it, but I won’t ever forget you. You think this, this thing between us, it’s that cheap? I changed my life to love you, and you think it’s so easy to let go? It hurts like hell Johnny, and I’ll still do it.”

 

He bows his head, tired, maybe resigned. The bare vulnerable space between his hairline and collar is open, and he’s tender there, sweet to kiss. John keeps on wanting to give Frank what is already his. He steps forward and puts his arms around Frank, places his lips gently on that patch of smooth skin. This is what they have. This is what he has, this sometimes gentle, irreplaceable, unforgiving and unforgivable man he has had to do with craving for years, waiting for the scraps their immensely complicated lives have allowed him to have, numb with horror and misery when deprived.

 

The end has always been waiting, insidious, patient. All he can do is accept it with the same reckless bravery he meets life with.


End file.
